


it's a monday

by insistentbass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-11
Updated: 2012-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Watson in a white coat coming home to a shocked Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's a monday

It's a damn good job that John Watson has a heart of gold. Because there's only so much one person can take, especially on a Monday.

He had awoken, or rather _been woken by_ , an obnoxiously loud violin solo that he was sure Sherlock had deliberately played a few octaves higher than necessary. The toaster had mysteriously broken over night, meaning John had spent the first part of his morning arguing with his flat mate that an inanimate object cannot  possibly explode itself and then throw itself against the kitchen wall. After that unsuccessful battle, he had resigned himself to a half cold cup of tea and a handful of digestives before dashing off to the clinic. His stints there were becoming less frequent, but there hadn't been a case for a good week, and the tension at Baker Street was so electric that he would take any excuse to leave.

John had been on his way out after a frustratingly quiet day (spent desperately trying not to fall asleep at his desk again), when the inevitable happened just as he reached the door - the World decided to crap on him one last time. This time in the form of a torrent of baby sick on his nice clean shirt and jacket. Somehow, he blamed Sherlock. It made him feel better for a nanosecond, until he realised he couldn't possibly travel home smelling like a bin and looking as if he had been on a very nasty bender.

And that's how John Watson finds himself, now, walking home in nothing but a pair of trousers and his white Doctors coat. It's cold. It's beginning to rain. _He hates everything_.

Of course the rain breaks about ten minutes away from Baker Street, forcing him to run the last leg home. He arrives soaking, greying hair plastered to his forehead and the coat rapidly becoming see through. As he ascends the stairs he curses the weather, musical instruments, and most of all his annoying mental as hell flat mate. He pushes the door open with a grumble and slightly more force than usual.

"You're late, John." 

Sherlock is spread across the sofa in his usual manner of petulant boredom, though his brows raise a little as he sees the deep murderous frown cracking John's face.

"You better have materialised a new toaster from somewhere because I'm hungry and wet and this is _all your fault_." John grumbles, slamming the door shut and making his way over to his armchair. The coat is sodden and sticking to his skin. He can feel Sherlock's eyes on him, dragging across his torso as he begins to remove the useless item of clothing. It's nothing new, the man always insists on staring, but for some reason it irks John a lot more than usual.

"What the bloody _hell_ are you staring at, Sherlock? This funny to you?" He bites, licking his lips the way he always does when he's waiting for an answer off Sherlock that he probably won't like (or doesn't even want to hear).

"No, _of course not_. Having a dripping wet Doctor stood in your living room wearing a see through coat and smelling remarkably like baby sick isn't amusing in the least. Not at _all_." Sherlock drawls, dragging his eyes away long enough to inspect his nails innocently.

John stands there, flustered for a moment, before he huffs in annoyance and resumes the removal of his coat. It literally peels off his skin, and he shivers as the warm air of Baker Street hits him. He throws the offending article over the back of the desk chair, and sits down, biting back a shiver. When he turns with the intention of asking Sherlock to stoke the fire, he finds his eyes focused intently on him again. This time however, the clever eyes are hooded and dark and it makes John shake with goosebumps even more.

"W-what?" He asks, teeth clacking together as the cold wracks his skin. John is suddenly very aware that he is sitting naked and wet in front of Sherlock, who seems intent on visually consuming his chest inch by inch. It's unnerving to say the least. 

John can't help but flinch as Sherlock rises cat like off the sofa to stand in front of the armchair, his dressing gown sweeping around him like some dramatic cape. 

"You're cold." The detective states, and John rises his eyebrow, somewhere between annoyed and amused at Sherlock's unnaturally obvious statement. He's about to retort sarcastically, when Sherlock dips his upper body and leans into his personal space, his knees knocking John's.

"Body heat" He states, low and dangerously close to John's nose. "we should share it."

John feels his own gulp travel down his throat and he clenches his hands instinctively against the arms of the chair. He isn't sure whether Sherlock is genuinely trying to help and has no idea how inappropriate he's being (wouldn't surprise him) or if the man is _actually_ trying to make his life even harder (literally). He reluctantly decides on the latter, though, as Sherlock drags one long finger down the centre of his chest.

Then, there are knees either side of his thighs and John tries to say 'What the hell are you doing?' but it somehow comes out as ' _God, Sherlock'_.  

Damn the world. Damn it all. Sodding _fuck_.

Those impossibly intelligent lips press to his cheek, then his collar bone, and then his shivering chest. John isn't cold anymore but he doesn't tell Sherlock. He broke the toaster. He owes him. At least, that's the reasoning he tells himself in his head, and it's a good enough excuse for now. Sherlock is doing delicious things to his skin and his hands are slowly stroking his thighs, John lets his head tip back and his eyes blissfully close.

Later, strung out across the sofa with Sherlock's feet in his lap, he decides he should wear his coat more often. And get caught in the rain whenever he possibly can.

 _God bless Mondays,_ he thinks.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
